


night flowers colored like your eyes

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Lobby Hero Premiere, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14222853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: The afterparty’s going to be big; the noise already cascades and crashes from hotel walls. Stupendous premiere. Exultant. Everybody high on adrenaline and afterglow. Incisive successful social commentary, a playwright’s words right up next to an audience, and Chris blushing while taking a bow.Sebastian had cheered—probably too loudly—and maybe it’d been his imagination that Chris had looked his way, had blushed more, had shaped his name with those lips, too quietly to hear.





	night flowers colored like your eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [night flowers colored like your eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15033761) by [sashach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashach/pseuds/sashach)



> Look, I can still write sweet and fluffy fic! Short fic, even! And someone had to write the Lobby Hero premiere - and what happened after - fic, right...?
> 
> Title from The Jam's "Tonight At Noon," this time. :-)

Chris is wonderful on Broadway.

Of course he is. Never a question. Not in Sebastian’s head, which has been sure of this for years. Chris Evans can do anything, all big and broad-shouldered and heroic and shining, not without battle-scars and self-doubt but even more real and human because of those pieces.

Sebastian leans against a wall, smiling, letting the universe hold him up. The afterparty’s going to be big; the noise already cascades and crashes from hotel walls. Stupendous premiere. Exultant. Everybody high on adrenaline and afterglow. Incisive successful social commentary, a playwright’s words right up next to an audience, and Chris blushing while taking a bow.

Sebastian had cheered—probably too loudly—and maybe it’d been his imagination that Chris had looked his way, had blushed more, had shaped his name with those lips, too quietly to hear.

Chris hadn’t known he’d be there; Sebastian hadn’t been quite sure of his own schedule nor his ability to scoop up opening-night tickets, so he hadn’t said anything beforehand. Couldn’t bear to disappoint that sunshine-hued heart.

He says hi to a few industry people. Colleagues, friends, acquaintances from his own ventures into theater. Mostly they wander his way to chat; Sebastian’s happy to hug everyone, excited to, but this isn’t his triumph.

He watches the door. He hadn’t waited for Chris after the show; he knows how long it can take to escape from congratulations, from adoring fans, from backstage jubilation. He knows Chris’ll be at this party, at least for a moment before the exhilaration wears off and the tiredness swings in. Chris has promised; Chris keeps promises.

Chris always does. One reason Sebastian loves him. One reason among many.

Chris Evans is the most loyal, most generous, most thoughtful person Sebastian knows. A happy-pawed golden retriever shapeshifted into human form. A philosopher’s soul and the stillness behind the roar of a waterfall, juxtaposed with beer pong and self-deprecation and affection for four-letter words. Chris Evans is everything at once, protean and paradoxical; Sebastian never gets tired of him, of being around him, soaking up that light and that passion.

Chris is his friend. Has been for years.

He’d always thought that sudden heart-racing first-meeting crush would go away. Would dwindle and depart, once he stopped being star-struck and astounded and loving the way Chris draped an arm over his shoulders or called him a sweet kid or said, “No worries, I got this,” and tackled tough questions for him, during interviews.

They’ve grown up and grown older and Sebastian’s the one more likely to make the lube-related costume-arm jokes these days and Chris gets a little pensive when mentioning that most of their co-stars’ve settled down with families. But that feeling lingers, engraved on his heart. Deeper, day by day, nestled in: carving space out in poignant crystal, clear as comprehension that’ll never be gone.

Sebastian Stan loves Chris Evans. From that first cup of coffee at that first screen test, his heart hammering so hard he’d thought Chris must’ve heard it, to here and now. 

Here and now, and himself canceling plans with friends—Charles and Will had laughed for a good ten minutes and told him to go get his man, but they’d meant well—because he’d been able to get tickets after all. Communing with his chosen wall at this champagne-bubble afterparty, wondering whether Chris has heard that he’d come—the press line hadn’t been subtle; he knows there’re pictures—and if so what Chris thinks.

Chris’ll be happy. They’re friends. They adore each other. He knows.

He smiles more when some media people wander by, and he deflects questions about himself and about Marvel’s plans for Bucky Barnes, and redirects the discussion to how amazing Chris is, how good at showing the layers of such a complex and distressing character, how brave the performance has been.

The room’s warmly lit, rich earth tones and honeyed uplighting, but he’s a bit cold. He’s skinnier than he’d been at the height of Civil War filming, and he’s got less hair. He wishes briefly that he’d kept his jacket on, earlier, rather than handing it over.

He likes his jacket. It’s fun. Black and elegant with just a hint of drama. Goes nicely with a blue sweater, which he is in no way wearing because Chris Evans once mentioned liking blue.

His clothing choices cuddle up protectively. They’re not judging. They like Chris too.

Commotion happens. Motion near the door. Cheers and whistles. Bodies arriving. Sebastian’s heart skips a beat, because nobody’s told it that there’s no hope, that after so long it’s plain Chris wants exactly what they’ve got, and wanting more is ridiculous and greedy of it.

Nevertheless: hopscotch and sunshine and shy giggles in a schoolyard. Daydreams and acrobats, swinging on trapezes. Gazing at Chris Evans.

Chris hasn’t seen him. Chris is saying something to Michael Cera, chortling, clapping him on a shoulder. Chris’s moustache is terrible and Chris’s gestures sweep the whole world into arcs of emotion and Sebastian smiles, and smiles, and wants to cry for an odd splintered second, and smiles more, held up by his wall.

Michael laughs and mimes punching Chris in the face, probably an old Scott Pilgrim shared film-set reference.

Sebastian puts a hand on his wall, low, unobtrusive. Lets out a breath.

Chris accepts handshakes and applause; Chris gets bashful and pink-eared, but then rallies and makes jokes and says thank you to everyone and takes and downs half the beer pressed into his hand. Sebastian can’t quite make out the words, but catches that Boston accent floating like banners over the din.

Chris should be happy. Chris deserves every drop of happiness.

Chris turns toward the bar, which coincidentally means that he turns Sebastian’s way. Sebastian throws the pure joy he’s feeling on Chris’s behalf—honest, all honest, the night was fantastic and Chris is fantastic and this is wholly earned—into his grin. Waves.

Chris’s eyes widen. Chris takes a step his direction.

Someone taps Chris’s arm. A question. Chris answers but keeps glancing over at Sebastian’s wall. Sebastian waves again: don’t worry, it’s fine, I’m just here, it’s your night.

Chris’s eyebrows do that superhero tugging-together move that happens when he’s thinking, Captain America trying to work a problem out, but then Edgar Wright’s running over for a hug, former director reunited with the actors he’s come to support, and Chris pauses to get caught up in all that energy.

People drift and mill and flood between them. Sebastian can’t quite see Chris anymore. He touches his wall again; he runs a hand through his hair.

He wants to support Chris. He _does_ support Chris. He wants to run that way and fling himself into Chris’s arms like a romance-novel heroine, breathless and celebratory, but he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t be appreciated. He stays put.

Chris _has_ seen him. The press have seen him; his support’s visible and public. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe he should go.

He shifts position, irresolute. He shivers, because he’s _still_ cold, dammit, and maybe he’s actually getting sick and maybe he shouldn’t even try to say hi to Chris because what if he gets Chris sick and that can’t happen, Chris _can’t_ get sick, and if he does it’ll be Sebastian’s fault and then everything’ll be ruined, the play and their friendship, because how could Chris still be his friend after Sebastian’s derailed his entire Broadway career with a cold, how could Chris still want to work with him, Sebastian’ll have to leave the Marvel universe behind and walk away, but of course he will, he’ll do that for Chris, because Chris is in the next movie too and Chris’s comfort’s more important—

He shuts his eyes for a second, only for a second. Performances. Playing someone who’s _not_ prone to whirlpools of overthinking and catastrophizing. Right.

“Seb!” That’s Chris’s voice. Sebastian knows that voice so well. “Seb? Sebastian?”

Chris sounds—not quite concerned, but heading that way. Curious.

And _far_ too close. Right beside him.

Sebastian snaps both eyes open fast enough to make himself dizzy. Slams the grin into place. “Chris! Hey, hi, you’re amazing, you were fucking amazing, I totally believed—I mean the facial hair is terrible, could they make it any worse—but you were great, I mean you _are_ great, the whole run is going to be—”

“You came,” Chris says, and the entire world fades into a backdrop for that presence: those ocean-wave eyes, those broad shoulders, that kindness, those tiny gilded freckles. The ones that dust fair skin like treasure-kisses, priceless. “For the premiere. Opening night.”

“I had to,” Sebastian says nonsensically, words tumbling out. Chris is so close, having gotten right up next to him and not retreated, built of protective devotion like the ideal of chivalry come to life. He can’t think. “I just—I had to.”

“You did?” Chris reaches out. Sebastian’s heart’s abruptly certain that that large gentle hand’s going to touch his face, tip his chin up, draw him into a kiss—

Instead the hand hovers, hesitates, brushes something—lint, dust, wall-smudges—from his shoulder. His legs and his heart, confused by this, are grateful for that wall.

Chris goes on, tone deliberately—Sebastian can tell, but can’t figure out what might be being concealed—neutral, “Really terrible? The facial hair. I mean, yeah, it fucking is, I know, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“What?”

They regard each other for a moment, in the undemanding aureate glow of a nondescript hotel party space.

Sebastian manages finally, “It’s okay, I’ve been there too, mine was worse,” and risks a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “You can actually pull that look off. Magic.”

“Nah.” Chris grins, though there’s a strange tentative edge to the expression. “You’re just bein’ nice. Like you always are. Like you are with every—seriously, though, what’d you think? You’ve done more on stage than I have.”

“Seriously,” Sebastian says lightly, light because he can’t handle anything else, because any more weight will crack the world in two, “I think you were great. Convincing, committed, commanding attention. It’s a good play and a good cast, and you’re good in it.”

And he _means_ to keep it light. He does. He can’t. He cares too much. He cares the way he always has, that crystalline spear lodged in his chest, hurting every time Chris Evans worries or frets or dismisses his own worth; Sebastian Stan will forever try to make Chris Evans smile, whether that means answering questions about _The Little Mermaid_ in interviews or tightening his grip on Chris’s arm under hotel lighting while bleeding internally from stab-wounds and sincerity.

The bleeding’s all diamonds, anyway. Transparent and lapidary and his, all his, a clarity that cuts but that he can’t give up. Part of him. Intimate and kept safe. Glittering and aching in his veins.

Chris says, “Thanks,” and says it quietly, almost wondering, eyes on Sebastian’s face. “Guess I’ll believe it. If you say so.”

“You should. Because I say so.”

Chris laughs. Sebastian soaks up the sound. Lets it sink into his bones.

“Hey,” Chris says this time, laughter remaining, lingering around eyes and lips and easy posture, tension fled, “I was gonna grab a drink—another drink—and, um, you want anything? Anything you want.”

You, Sebastian’s traitorous heart shouts. Hotel ballroom lights brush his face, trace Chris’s long eyelashes, illuminate a shoulder.

But Chris means it the way friends do. An offer. Heading to the bar in any case. Sebastian knows this. He should know this.

He wants to say yes. He wants a drink. He wants to let Chris get him a drink. He wants Chris to mean the question the way it sounds, the way it might’ve been meant if they were two other people in another universe, glancing at each other along the wooden expanse of an unremarkable downtown bar, someplace without fame or care, where Chris Evans could fall in love with Sebastian Stan.

He wants to say yes and he wants to say no, because this isn’t that universe and this drink isn’t that story and his fingers are icy.

He hasn’t said anything yet. He realizes this fact when Chris frowns, which is wrong: Chris should never have to frown when not in-character for a role.

“Seb,” Chris says, fond and careful and tender, so very tender, and Sebastian thinks of a guiding hand at his back on red carpets and that Boston-boy voice telling him to _pay attention, Seb_ and smirking, “are you okay? You look—I don’t know.” He stops, shifts weight, leans in. “Haven’t seen you this quiet since…I can’t even remember. The first press tour, maybe.”

“I’m quiet sometimes,” Sebastian says. He’s saying more. He’s saying _I’m happy standing right here with you, this is for you, all of it, the night and the exuberance and me, every piece of me, if you ever wanted that, and I know you don’t and  I’ll cheer you on from the front row forever and that’ll be okay too_. He’s pretty sure Chris, not being a telepath, doesn’t hear that. “It’s not all lube jokes all the time, you know.”

“Only half the time.” But Chris looks at Sebastian’s hand on his arm; Chris puts a hand over Sebastian’s hand, on his arm. “When you know it makes everybody laugh. When you know they want that. Sometimes I wonder if you ever get sick of— Your hand is cold.”

Sebastian looks at his own hand. Now they’re both looking at his hand. Cradled in Chris’s strong fingers.

“Seb,” Chris says once more, his name on those lips, “Sebastian, are you—” and then swears, an astonishing dazzle of profanity. “I’m getting you out of here. Come on.”

“What? Why? Where are we—” He trips over words and his own feet. Chris is still holding his hand. An unhelpful table-leg tries to intervene. He stumbles, can’t catch balance, thinks of falling. “Chris—”

Chris yanks him out a side door and into a hotel hallway, hisses something about privacy at the event security stationed there, and tugs him around a corner into an empty corridor and starts running hands all over him.

Sebastian, bewildered and impressed by efficiency and unfortunately incredibly turned on by the hands, tries, “Chris…?”

“You’re cold.” Chris touches his cheek. “You feel cold. And you’re all quiet and earlier you were leaning on the—are you okay? Does your head hurt? Does anything hurt? Do you need to sit down?”

“Chris—”

“Why the fuck did you even come tonight if you’re not okay, what the hell, Seb, you don’t have to do that—not for me, not if—”

“Chris!”

This gets Chris to stop talking, though neither of them seems to quite know what comes next; Sebastian absolutely does not. Chris’s hand’s cupping his face, thumb resting over a cheekbone. Chris’s breaths land shaky, frayed by emotion. So do Sebastian’s own.

The hallway sprawls out beyond Chris’s left shoulder. Beige and taupe and tranquil, it wraps them up in anonymous solitude. A temporary place, another in a long line; but this one’s theirs right now. Nobody else. Sebastian’s heartbeat, and Chris’s hand against his skin.

He breathes, “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

They don’t move.

“I was kind of cold,” Sebastian says this time, an admission, a yielding and a comfort: he _can_ tell Chris when something’s not quite right. Chris’s other hand, on his shoulder, tightens in response. Chris’s thumb rubs slowly, perhaps unconsciously, over his cheek. “In there. I was—um, cold. But I’m fine. I’m not sick or anything. Or. Um. I don’t think I am.”

“You need to be warm,” Chris whispers back, eyes searching his, hands coaxing him closer. Chris Evans wants to rescue the world, a puppy-hero charging forth; Chris is built of heat and muscle and compassion, and Sebastian’s falling all over again, but he’s caught and held upright by that sunshine. By Chris’s arms.

Chris, now holding him, not looking away, says, “You did come. To my premiere. I knew—I mean, Michael told me, backstage, he was checking the internet and saw pictures—I saw you out there. I wanted to be good. For you.”

“You were. You _are_.”

“I wanted…” Chris breathes in, exhales, confesses, “I hoped you’d come. I thought about it. Fuckin’ stupid daydream. Looking out and seein’ you in the front row. And then you were.”

“I was.”

“You were.” Chris laughs again, a fleeting glimpse of amazement. “You—we—what’re we doing? You and me.”

Sebastian, safely encircled in Chris’s warmth, says, “You’re defending me against being cold,” and meets those eyes. Because they’re meeting his.

“Always will.” Chris’s gaze is grave and honest and happy, full of dawning comprehension; Chris’s grin’s happy too. “Always wanted to. If you want. I never knew. Never could tell. What you wanted.”

“I do. Want that. I have since—I don’t even know. You said it. Always.” He’s smiling also. He can’t help it. This is right, he thinks. This is real. This is true as Chris’s muscles and weightless as sunbeams and tangible as the reliable blandness of _their_ hotel hallway. “And I’m here for you. In the front row. Opening night. Every opening night. Every show you’re ever in.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian says right back, an echo and a promise, a vow that’s swallowed up by Chris’s lips on his, Chris Evans kissing him. The wall’s hard and present and steadfast at his back; Chris tastes of beer and kisses like sunrise, undeniable and glorious and wholehearted. Sebastian’s pulse sings, drenched in light; Chris’s moustache tickles his mouth, and he laughs, giddy.

Chris stops, ears red. “I _knew_ you were just bein’ nice about it—”

“It’s you right now,” Sebastian says, “it’s you for this role, I don’t mind it—well, no, okay, it’s sort of hilarious—but I like that, I _like_ that you commit to your facial hair, I like _you_.”

“I love you,” Chris says. Unvarnished, simple, pure.

“Good,” Sebastian says, “because I love you,” and they’re kissing again, moustache and laughter and all.

“So,” Chris suggests eventually, some blissful amount of time later. Their security’s popped by to clear his throat once. Sebastian’s too dreamy to be bothered to move. “We should…probably…head back in? At least for a little while? Say hi to people, take pictures, all that?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says, getting lost in Chris’s eyelashes, in the roaming of Chris’s hands down his back, in the desire throbbing between them, sweetly tantalizing.

“God, you’re fucking adorable.” Chris kisses his nose. “What’d I say once? Pay attention? Can you—”

“I liked that,” Sebastian observes, still dreamy, never wanting this feeling to end, starting to believe that maybe it won’t. Maybe, he decides, it’s been there all along, just waiting for them to figure it out. And they have. Stumbling, growing, getting here tonight. Together. “When you said it. It felt good.”

Chris’s eyebrows fly up. “Really? Huh. Good to know. _Really_ good to know. If you like that we could—I had a point. Focus. Right. Want to go back in and say hi and then get out of here? No one’ll care, they know I’m not great at crowds and publicity, we can make it quick. I’ll find your coat.”

“Yes, please. Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“I live here. Not in this hotel! I mean New York. I live in New York. Not that far away.”

“Yeah?” Chris strokes a hand through Sebastian’s hair, lets it slide to rest on the back of his neck. The hand’s a weight, a declaration, an anchor-point made of gold. Sebastian barely holds back the sound of pleasure; maybe he doesn’t quite manage to, because Chris starts grinning more widely. “What was that? Didn’t catch it. I like your sweater, by the way. You look good in blue.”

“I have blue sheets,” Sebastian says, “and I was thinking you could come home with me. To make completely sure I’m staying warm.”

“You have the best fucking ideas,” Chris says, “I love you.”

They run back into the party. They mingle and take pictures. Chris keeps a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, an arm around him, their bodies drawn close. Sebastian puts an arm around Chris— _his_ Chris—and holds on.

In the flurry of pictures—friends, professionals, news and mementos—he knows they’re both smiling: beaming, really, filled up with love and pride and radiant anticipation of, yes, coming home at last. The moment’ll be captured in snapshots forever.

Standing next to Chris, under Chris’s arm, futures entwined and beckoning impatiently, he thinks that he’ll ask for copies of some of those photographs. He likes the way that forever sounds.


End file.
